Fires Unlit

It is half past eight and the playground is empty,
lit by amber light, the swings butt against each other
powered by childrens laughter, pushed by tiny permanent ghosts

Oh, English countryside
abandoned and passionate, fires unlit
by the barbeque pile, just logs
waiting to be touched
to warm another’s conversation in air
that leaks and swells with plant spores, manure and hopefulness

It is splendid in its greenery,
not even the baggy trousered youths on
skateboards passing, oblivious to the world turning and the sorrow creeping in, can spoil it now

train against the tracks
its weight and power fading into England’s middle distance
hear me now railways, you do not fit well with my destination
you are veins, snaking stark and proud in a bisection of my homeland, but you do not bring the blood to my heart

canalside, what a privilege to be
ensconced in someone’s – dead now –
some poet’s idea of home
and happiness. As he did,
I breathe untainted air, my feet make friends with lush grasses and sheep moan their world-weary ovine ramblings;
an Englishman’s home is his castle
but they never mentioned an Englishwoman.

About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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